Voldemort's Family Reunion!
by Hammy Penguin
Summary: Join Voldemort as he rediscovers his roots!one11! Hope you brought some soup.


Hammy Penguin strikes again

Hammy Penguin strikes again!

He strikes out and is sent back to the bench where the rest of his team glares at him and throws sunflower seeds in his general direction.

"Hammy Penguin, if I were legally allowed to cut you from the team I would," glowered his coach.

"Sorry, Daddy."

Anyway.

Chapter teh One: The Lion King two: Simba's Pride…it's a PUN!

Voldemort sniffled and blew the hole in his head where his nose should've been on his sleeve as he watched the streetfight of lions battling to the death in a bloody showdown.

"Why must the lions fiiiight?!" he whined and sobbed into his teddy bear Tedward Bartholomew III.

He felt a vibration in his pocket.

He ignored it. Then his cell telegraph went off.

Your mom.

He took out his guide to Morse code and read the following message:

"Your hold on Pat the Bunny: The Bunny is Soft is ready to be picked up at the End of the Universe Libraro STOP"

Voldemort growled. He always mixed up y and o.

He wondered why they thought he wanted Pat the Bunny: The Bunny is Soft when he had really placed a hold on Let's Be Friends.

Oh well. Telegrams were quite shifty little buggers. It was hard to place holds on books with them.

He had just put the cell telegraph back in his pocket when it started to vibrate again.

Then he remembered that he had to make another telegraph and got the cell telegraph out of his pocket. Do you like tuuuuna!

Only with crackers.

Don't be racist.

He felt another vibration, this time acknowledging it by wrenching the culprit out of his pocket and throwing it against the adjacent wall.

"Furby hungryyyy…" whined the culprit.

"Shut UP!" Voldemort snapped. The furby was the second worst Christmas present he ever received from his Uncle Remus. The first was that likely life-threatening case of –

Well. He probably shouldn't talk about THAT. But he could write about it on his myspace blog. There seemed to be quite a few people in a similar situation.

The cell telegraph started tapping again and he quickly translated the message: Hay Tom STOP We's are havin a reunioun wif al da familee STOP STOP STOP STOP 1oen STOP It will bee funn STOP Everyboty is xpecting yo STOP You must come or else we will sned Bubba 2 pool youre arms offe STOP And you beter bring your potayto sald STOP You is teh onlee won hoo can mayk it STOP

Voldemort frowned. He had been pretty sure that he had killed all of his family, or at least severed all ties to them. He had no idea how they could have gotten hold of the number for his cell telegraph.

Suddenly a flashback!

Voldemort sat at his typewriter writing his personal information on his myspace and specifically wrote "If anybody wants to chat with me, my cell telegraph number is 77777777777774. And ask for Voldemort, because that's me. Call me whenever you want. I will always answer. I'm not kidding. Not even a little bit."

Then the flashback ended with an abrupt whoosh of light that caused Voldemort to unrealistically fly backwards against the wall.

Actually, that wasn't the flashback ending. That was the number 11 bus that had jumped the curb and hit him.

"Furby backed uuuuuup…" it whined from under the tire.

…No, don't change scenes yet!

Well, there were still apparently some strays of his family hanging around somewhere. Which was unfortunate because he had truly gone to a lot of trouble to get all of the ones he thought existed to… not exist. Because they sucked. He'd had a craptastic childhood and it was all their faults for either being all rich and snobby or stupid and very much of a red-neck nature. By the spelling of the cell telegraph, he figured that these ones must have been from the latter group.

"Um."

He didn't know what to say. Neither did Hammy Penguin.

He put the cell telegraph away. He figured he'd probably better show up to the stupid event because he'd already lost his arms once when he tried to lift a copy of _Atlas Shrugged_ because that book was a beast. Really. It ate him.

While Voldemort was sitting between pages 721 and 722 of _Atlas Shrugged_, he figured he didn't want to go through this process again. He was incredibly bored and quite uncomfortable from being squished between the massive amounts of pages and he'd read the words on the pages he was stuck between several times. He had quite enough of it. Also he wanted to know what happened on the next page but he couldn't as he was stuck between them for several weeks.

And he needed to pee. Despite his upbringing, he was specifically trained not to urinate on novels.

His roommate came home from his calculus study group to find an empty dorm and no Voldemort in sight. Just a large copy of _Atlas Shrugged_ lying in the middle of the floor right where Voldemort said he'd be standing when the roommate got back.

The roommate ignored the book and stepped on it as he made his way through the dorm, further squishing Voldemort.

"Squish," said Voldemort's guts.

Wahaha

Years later, the roommate graduated and Voldemort remained in the book, having to pee reeeeally bad, and another set of roommates moved into the dorm.

"Ew. Book." One roommate commented when he saw the novel on the floor. "There shall be no books in college." He then shoved the book out the door as it was indeed too large and heavy to lift.

Voldemort felt movement for the first time in several years, but it was a very frightening movement as it was really fast and really sudden. Then it was met by a lot of bumpy downward action as the book slid over to the staircase and tumbled down three and a half flights. Halfway down the fourth flight the book fell through a weak stair and plummeted into the basement of the dorms. There it remained for another five years before a janitor came into the basement to check up on his pet rats when he noticed the large book on the floor.

"That's weird," commented the janitor and then left.

Voldemort was extremely disappointed at his very close encounter with freedom and grumbled some more as he had to pee still.

Six years passed and Voldemort was still being squished between pages 721 and 722 of _Atlas Shrugged_ and he was quite sick of it.

Then he decided he just couldn't wait any longer and he got out of the book and left to find a bathroom.

Well, that was all rather pointless.

But then again, so is life. And eating vegetables. Voldemort never ate his vegetables and he had turned out just fine.

Standing up after getting hit by the bus, three of his fingers and his right ear fell off. He picked them up and sorta jammed them back on, hoping they would stay put until he could get his rubber cement from back

5 months later

east where he kept his stash of rubber cement for the unfortunate and pruny occasion that his limbs would fall off.

…Voldemort is not Darth.

This was decided when Voldemort and Darth got into a bar fight somewhere in a 1940s western film during which time Voldemort kept slapping Darth in the face and pistol whipped him until Darth learned that he should just walk away and ignore him whenever he tried to slap him and tease him about his misshaped helmet and lateral lisp.

Wow. Long sentence.

"may the forsche be with you," the mean kids on the playground would yell at darth as he walked by with his red dodgeball his mom gave him.

Darth would spend his recesses in a stall in the girls' bathroom drawing pictures of dead parakeets and school busses running over cliffs. This disturbed his teachers, except his math teacher who was blind, deaf and mentally retarded, so he was often sent to the counselors office where he was slapped in the face by the counselor and banished to the girls' bathroom for recess.

But one day, Darth drew a picture of his counselor getting hit by a meteor.

Then the next day, his counselor had a stroke and fell off a cliff.

Hmm.

Well that digressed.

So Voldemort was not Darth, and he therefore had to settle with stuffing his various body parts back on instead of getting smanshy robot limbs.

I am robot I am robot I am robot.

Anyway, the whole limb thing wasn't a problem at present. The only thing that was a problem was that he didn't know where his family actually was.

Apparently they knew where he was, though. And they would destroy his arms, and that would be bad because they were really fragile where he had used the rubber cement.

Since he didn't know where else to start, Voldemort took a right on the street ahead of him and walked straight ahead for the next 4.2 hours, at which time it became necessary for him to take a brief respite to relieve himself. Except "relief" had nothing to do with it as v…

I hope you aren't being perverted somehow.

……

no comment.

I was just going to say that he had an enflamed anus.

That's gross. … Sicko.

Well it's true. And every time he'd fart, it would feel like he was crapping a piano.

…………………….

So then he forgot what direction he had been walking in since he was a bit distracted

MMMOOOONTGOOOOMEEERRYYY AAAAAAAAAANGRYYYYY!!

Since he didn't recall what direction he had been walking, he randomly chose a direction, which, unfortunately, happened to be the direction he had just come from. So then he ended up walking another 8.4 hours so that he passed the town he had been in and got to the town down the road.

"Do you know where my family is?" he asked the gas station clerk.

The gas station clerk looked at him and then smacked him in the face.

It was at that moment that Voldemort realized that the gas station clerk was actually Darth.

"I got you back, wench!" darth declared in mirth. He then commenced the happy dance he'd been practicing for this very event. As he danced his happy dance, he broke out the fireworks he'd been saving for this very event, and some left over from Hannukkah, and shot them off until they exploded in the sky in bright vibrant colors of hope and wonder.

"Darth? DARTH!"

Darth woke up from his nap to find Voldemort staring at him across the gas clerk desk.

"…What?" Darth asked his old nemesis.

Voldemort reached over and slapped him across the face.

"I said do you know where my family is!"

"Why would I want to know where your family is?" Darth said angrily, partly because he had been having a good dream that had rudely been interrupted by the last person he actually wanted to see, and partly because he didn't know how to say things nicely.

His mommy had not taught him.

Darth grumbled for a moment and crossed his arms. "I wouldn't want to know where they are. There wouldn't be any point. Not like I could find out where they were to like blackmail you or anything. Threaten your reputation as being all evil and evil and stuff and corn by telling everybody that your family has furniture on their front lawn and five cars on blocks and a bunch of beer cans and crooked teeth and corncob pipes and go "nnderg" and play are jugs and washboards and inbreed. And…. Your mom."

Voldemort blinked and then slapped Darth again before leaving.

Smeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed

Voldemort sat in a phone booth and slumped in a sad depression of not happiness when he looked down and found a book hanging by a cord.

The initial sight of massive amounts of pages between two paper covers gave him shivers as the daunting memory of the _Atlas Shrugged_ monster devouring him came back to poke him in the face with its long pointy poking stick of pokey.

But when he took a closer look, he saw the title of the book.

He didn't recognize the title, so he figured it was one of those trash novels by Tom Clancy or John Grisham or William Seil.

Or guacamole if avocados were in season.

The author was someone by the name of Qwest. He'd studied Qwest's works in community college and he was very fond of his short stories. But not so much his poetry. He had to do a lot of research papers on the poetry and he found it rather mundane.

He opened the first page of the book and started reading to pass the time in his little class case of emotion.

He'd gotten to page 785 when he found a familiar name.

RIDDLE Urgahingerdinger and Sue 7 Spicey Chicken Lane, Bath England…911-8131.

He then paused and read the oddly worded sentence seventeen more times. He then flipped the book over to read the front cover again.

He then realized that he did recognize the title of the book.

Phone Book.

He then remembered that Qwest wasn't a real author and didn't write short stories or poetry.

And he never attended community college.

And that William Seil only wrote one book and it got bad reviews.

Seil rhymes with sneeze.

Voldemort felt a momentary sadness at the fact that he couldn't sneeze. Of course, that only lasted a minute, because he recalled that sneezing wasn't really all that and a bag of chips, yo.

After this mental meandering, Voldemort once again turned his attention to the phone book. How very fortuitous it was that he came across this valuable resource. Even though there were many Riddles listed in the book, it was pretty obvious that this Urga-whatsit-tuna person was one of the people he was looking for, quite unfortunately.

There was a bus that would be leaving for Bath in half an hour, so he


End file.
